Category: Thursday Thought

Smoke….flash…bang! 

The impact rattled in my chest as much as it rumbled on the field. I’m speaking of the Cantigny Revolutionary War Reenactment we witnessed, courtesy of the North West Territory Alliance.

Envision more than 400 Revolutionary War actors in full costume.  Mix in cannons, muskets and rifles blasting away and history definitely came alive.  Period blacksmiths and shopkeepers offered wares of all kinds, including leather goods, wooden ladles, pewter mugs, knives and bonnets.

Of particular interest to me was a writing desk where you could scratch out letters with a period quill and ink.  The guide even provided hot wax and a stamp to seal your letter. 

But the biggest and loudest event, of course, was the mock battle staged in the open field.  Redcoats and American patriots recreated war at the time of Washington as hundreds of spectators looked on.

One take-away for me: the gap between opposing forces was shockingly small—a colonial musket being accurate only up to 50 yards.  To describe the sound as merely intense would not do justice to the afternoon.

Through the lens of my camera, I saw flashes of fire and smoke, the monstrosity of war spewing shock and awe over the entire field.   And because this reenactment was about truly sensing the impact of combat, there were “casualties” in the form of simulated deaths.  Before long, a number of “corpses” lie still on the green lawn. I was entranced.

And then it was over.  

The smoke cleared.  The conflict done, the crowd began to leave. Soldiers who appeared stone dead a moment previous stood up and began walking and talking and laughing.  Honestly, it was a bit of a mind bender.

In the sound and fury, I think I may have encountered a portrayal of the end of days.  When the last battle has finally been fought and the smoke clears, our God will raise His children back to life! 

We shall see then that fatal accidents, cancers, heart attacks, old age and wars were only a pause. In the splendor of heaven, where war will never enter, we will pick up conversations and laugh with our believing brothers and sisters as if the death that separated us was nothing more than a short drama played out on a grassy field one Saturday afternoon.

Come, Lord Jesus!

Would you accept a dinner invitation from folks living at the home of “Simon the leper?”  Having personally visited a leprosy clinic and seen feet without toes and stumps without hands, I’m not sure I’d even show up.

But Jesus did.

There at the home of Simon the leper, He sat down to eat.  Matthew 26 records that at some point during the meal, a woman approached him carrying an alabaster vial of very pricey perfume.  She promptly poured it on his head as he lay reclining at the table.  Not some of it.  All of it. 

In a culture where bathing was difficult, the heat often oppressive and deodorant essentially non-existent, a normal dining experience must have required a measure of self-distraction to get past the stink of street life.

So imagine the power of that fragrance, drizzling beauty over every musty molecule in the room.  Stench supplanted by sweet.

A wreckless gift? A kindness borne of brashness? Perhaps.  At least that was the disciples’ assessment: “Why this waste?  For this perfume might have been sold for a high price and the money given to the poor!”

Jesus shot right back at them, “Why do you bother the woman? For she has done a beautiful thing to me.”

I had scarcely “heard” these words out of Jesus’ mouth when they pierced me like an arrow.  Winded and emotionally gasping, I could not escape the razor edge of such thought.  

Have I ever—even once—in my entire life done something for Christ which He would describe as “a beautiful thing done to me”?  Have I done just one small task, made one small sacrifice, done one small kindness exclusively for the person and pleasure of Jesus? 

I can’t speak for you, but I know that even the best of my “pure” motives are often not very pure.  There’s a little of self in there somewhere. 

The purity of this woman’s gift—a beautiful thing to Jesus—is a fragrance we still enjoy today.  Her story—and her gift—have been celebrated for two millennia.  So…

What’s my gift?      

What’s yours?

Confession: On Sunday mornings, I often sing the worship songs without actively giving God true praise.  I mouth the words…but fail to process them.  I sing the tunes, but don’t engage them.  Is this a lack of gratitude on my part?  Perhaps.  I suspect it's more an issue of distraction (I can’t imagine God is somehow okay with that).

Nine-month old Ava showed me up last Sunday.  Attending church service on the grounds of King Camp we sang hymns and choruses—typical Sunday morning fare.   I was once again…well, distracted.

Part of the distraction this time was Ava herself.  This blue-eyed baby has a mesmerizing effect on any who would glance her direction.  Her little smiles, patty- cake smacks and other antics are beyond charming—even for an adult in a place of worship, at a time of worship.

That’s when I saw Ava.  She was patting the hymn book with her open palm.  Over and over she gently tapped the thing.  Then I noticed her mouth.  It was wide open and she was definitely offering a vocal praise of her own.  Though I freely admit to being partial to this little baby, I’m absolutely certain she shows early potential as a musician.

Consider—baby Ava was singing.  Not because she had to.  Not because it was printed in a bulletin.  Not because some guitar-clad, facial-haired worship leader told her to.  She was making a joyful noise because she couldn’t NOT do so. 

For the skeptic suggesting I’m ascribing a bit too much to Ava’s gesture, check out Psalm 8: “From the lips of children and infants He has ordained praise….”    

Ava has something to teach me—and maybe you, too.  It’s true we don’t wear onesies anymore.  No more footies in our jammies. So more than ever, it’s time to pursue worship as grownups. Not because we have to, but out of a sense that we can’t NOT worship.  When we get to the place where our worship is the unstoppable overflow of a full heart, we will cease being pretenders and become more like Ava: bubbling over with a simple joy that has its beginning and end in Jesus.  

Imagine a tree five-feet in diameter whose massive trunk stands poised to pummel the ground.  (I was actually there and took pictures!). The word, “thud,” doesn’t begin to describe what happened when the last of the chainsaw’s work was done.

Our kids spent a surprising amount of their summers under that massive Oak which was almost a family friend. For shade, beauty and protection (you could sit by your campfire under its thick boughs and scarcely feel a drop of rain) this tree was in a class of its own. 

So why did it have to be taken down?  I was told the tree became rotten.  Yet it still bore some green leaves I noted, a bit unconvinced, even skeptical.

This weekend, I stood on the stump of the grand old tree and observed a dark hole as wide as a hand span, a cavity of nothing but rot. The hole went down into the earth below the stump.  More evidence of rottenness.

While driving past the campground’s wood pile, I then found the overturned chunk of trunk that once connected to the stump. Get this—that same hole of rotten nothingness had eaten through this segment as well.  It was large enough that I could shove my entire arm inside—so I did! 

The rottenness went past my elbow—ran the full length of the section.  In other words, the tree exhibited some signs of life on the outside, but was thoroughly rotten inside.  I was shocked to study the tunneled void that bore no water, no nutrients at all to the limbs and branches.

It all got me to thinking.  I wonder how many of us who’ve claimed the name of Christ are in some measure like that rotten tree.  We look reasonably good to the world and—more critically—to our church family and Christian friends.  Our exterior conduct might hint at some minor problems, but hardly anybody knows that deep inside, there’s a deadly spiritual void where obedience and holiness ought to be.  We are rotten—”up to the elbow.” 

Personally, I'm amazed at the rot that creeps into my own life. There’s the rottenness of a critical spirit, a careless word, a haughty spirit. There’s the rottenness of chronic anxiety, prayerlessness, exaggerated speech and self-focus. 

The good news is that unlike the tree I’ve described, there’s hope for you and me.  God can actually restore years of rot. The bad news is if we continue in our self-deception, the spiritual rot will eventually kill us. In the end, whether we rot—or not—is ultimately a question of choice.  Let’s choose wisely!

“Put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.”   —Ephesians 4:24

At 25,000 feet, clouds look different.  They just do. From the window of a jet, the view is completely unobstructed.  No cluttered skylines, no haze, no polluted air, just crisp viewing. 

But the skyscape I like best is seen at much lower altitudes.  I love it when the plane lofts just high enough that is enshrouded in the misty vapor of the first cloud layer. Wispy trails rocket past the window reminding me of just how fast the hollow metal tube in which I’m seated is actually traveling.  

But once we reach cruising altitude—say 25,000 feet—the clouds look much more like a VBS craft project of cotton balls glued to blue construction paper. Right about then, Psalm 19 often sweeps over me:

“The heavens declare the glory of God.  The skies proclaim the work of His hands.  Day after day they pour fourth speech.  Night after night they display knowledge.”

On a recent flight it came to me that David wrote this Psalm likely never having climbed anything taller than Masada (1,440 feet above the desert floor).  We're not told if he ever climbed Mount Hermon (about 7,300 feet).  But with his gift for poetry, what lyrics would David have constructed had he sat in the window seat next to me?  What imagery would he have crafted staring out at the wing?  You can bet it would be memorable—and worth memorizing. 

Back to Psalm 19, though.  Verse one says the heavens “declare” and the skies “proclaim.”  The problem is, I’m rarely listening to what they’re declaring or proclaiming!  In fact, in my on-going distraction, I often don’t even notice the skies. It’s a shame.

 The heavens are declaring. 

They will declare tonight in the glitter of a hundred billion stars.  Or the sliver of a milk-white moon.  They’ll declare tomorrow when orange streaks swoosh across the early morning canvas. They’ll declare the next day and the next day and the next…all the way until the cataclysm of the last day!

The heavens—God’s heavens—are declaring His glory.  The only question is, are we hearing the “glory chorus?”

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I loved it then.  I love it now.  Enough that I bought the entire five-disc series on DVD and now share this magical underwater past of mine  with our grandkids.

You’d think that in an age of green screen, CGI and 3D animation Stingray would be sunk.  But the kids love Captain Troy Tempest and his sidekick, “Phones.”  Then there’s Marina and Atlanta, who share a competing love interest in Troy.

Firmly in charge of “Marineville” is the gristled gray haired Commander Shore.  The grandkids often mimic his recurring comment,“Stand by for action.  Anything can happen in the next half-hour!”

There's something else about Commander Shore the kids have unfortunately observed.  The boss smokes an occasional cigar (looks strangely believable in the mouth of a marionette).

Recently our daughter texted us a photo of her kids who were munching on apple sticks—long skinny treats that admittedly resemble…well, a cigar or cigarette.  Recalling their Stingray pal, they clenched the apple sticks between their teeth claiming, “Now, I'm Commander Shore!”

I chuckled. Then cringed.  And thought deeply.  We are picky about what videos we let our grandkids watch.  Stingray’s story lines champion courage, selflessness and goodness. Still, Commander Shore has apparently made a deep (unhelpful) impression on our little grandkids.

I wonder—how many other “unhelpful” impressions do we leave with our little ones?  What other useless or damaging habits, words and actions do we expose them to?  We tell them they cannot watch something on television but we ourselves are glued to that same forbidden show.  We tell them church attendance is vital, but we ourselves may have a spotty record.  We tell them they cannot have a glass of this or that, yet perhaps we indulge freely.

Proverbs 22:6 counsels, “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”  Notice that phrase, “the way they SHOULD go.”  If we I gnore this warning, despite our highest hopes, our parenting will almost certainly…get sunk.

Smart folks do not let smartphones near water.

(And now the story).

Recently at our campground, eight-year-old Joslynn and I chugged around the lake in a paddle boat.  Fun!  Back on shore, Joslynn immediately asked if we could take the kayaks out for a spin.

Point of clarification: paddle boats have broad flat bottoms and are virtually impossible to capsize.  By contrast, kayaks are unstable, and easily dunked.  This insight came to me later, rather than earlier.

In approximately 18 inches of water, I managed to roll the kayak, thoroughly soaking myself—and the iPhone in my pocket. Rocketing out of the sandy muck, I dug for the phone, staggered out of the water, and rushed for a towel we did not have (we were boating, not swimming!). 

Like a stroke or heart attack, I knew time was not on my side.  Joslynn and I hurried back to the camper where I recalled that shoving a wet phone into a bag of rice might help it revive.  But who has rice at a campground?  Why…the next door neighbors, of course. The throes of death tentacled my device as the screen fogged, fuzzed, coughed and wheezed. I jammed it into the bag of rice and hoped for a miracle.  With the power finally switched off, I left the iPhone in a coma on life support.  And waited.

The next day, it would power up, but the screen was still somewhat trashed.  Yet it seemed to be receiving texts and emails.  My son, Tim, the acknowledged tech master of our family, crushed my fragile hopes with the assessment, “Bro, it’s over.”  I believed him.

Day three, we transferred all the photos off the phone while there was still a pulse.  The screen was considerably improved.  “Don’t let it fool you,” Tim said.  “The battery probably won’t hold a charge.”  But it did.

Day four, I stepped out in faith and declared the iPhone resurrected—the screen fully restored.  But I knew that even if that were true, another water disaster would likely seep into my future.  So I immediately priced out a water tight case. I wanted the assurance that if ever again I capsized a kayak or canoe I wouldn’t be out hundreds of dollars.  That very morning I bought a “Lifeproof” case.

This is a rare happy story in a long line of wireless woes, but also something of a cautionary tale.  It is well and good to want to protect a smartphone from disaster. But do we extend the same concern in protecting ourselves from sin?

Your body (and mine) is a “temple of the Holy Spirit.”   How much care have I extended in fighting gluttonous impulses every time somebody at the office brings in doughnuts?  What kind of protections do we make to keep our online experiences free from sexual imagery?  What about our choices in movies, books and music?  Do we have a “lifeproof” case for that?  Or are we just sort of hoping we won’t get capsized by sin?

Having baptized other phones, my “Lifeproof” purchase shows it’s not a question of if—but when—I’m going to face a disaster.  How dare we be one whit less defensive when it comes to sin!

Recently, I had the honor of talking with Will Graham.  As the grandson of evangelist Billy Graham, Will carries the family name well.  Better than that, he carries the name of Jesus well.

In the course of more than three decades at Moody Radio, I’ve been blessed to meet and interview a number of Will’s family members: Anne Graham Lotz, Franklin Graham (Will’s Dad), Gigi Tchividjian, and Billy himself, whom his grandson refers to as “Daddy Bill.” 

Can I tell you a secret, something I’ve seen up close?  Apart from their love Jesus, the most important thing you need to know about the Graham family is that they are plain humble people, gracious and unassuming to a person.

They’ve been everywhere, done everything.  They have preached, published, and proclaimed the Word.  They have dined with presidents and princes.

In the course of our conversation, I thanked Will for the Graham family’s integrity over many years.  He reminded me that he is constantly aware of the potential to fall, jealous to guard the reputation of Christ. 

Will recalled traveling to Anaheim, California as a boy where his grandfather was speaking. Billy was spotted and people lined up for autographs—big time.

There were hundreds of people and the line wrapped around the entire block. “Daddy Bill patiently met with every single one of them,” Will reflected.

At one point, Will decided to walk across the street and talk to his Grandpa.  But a policeman, doing his level best to manage the crowd, kindly informed young Will he’d have to get in line.  Will remembers, “Just then Daddy Bill called out to me with his arms wide open.  ‘Will!’ I ran right over to him.”

Will now ponders that moment of so many years ago as a unique life lesson. “When you’re a grandson, you have access to your grandfather.  When you’re a child of God, you have access to your Heavenly Father.  Because we know Jesus, we have access to our Heavenly Father!”

Billy Graham is 98 and in declining health. Will told me, “Someday soon, he’ll go home to Jesus.  The world will lose ‘Evangelist Billy Graham.’  But I will lose Daddy Bill, my last living grandparent.” 

At this point, Will spoke softer, a lump clearly lodged in his throat. A slight pause followed as He found himself wiping a tear.  I found myself looking away.   Apparently, it was contagious.